None spoke. Only Úlf's voice rang out, strangely muffled by the fog, its beats matched by each dip of the oars.
His eyes straining as they struggled to penetrate the fog, Bjólf could finally make out the swirling waters where the north river joined immediately ahead. They would pick up some speed here, but would also find out if they had escaped the wrath of their pursuers. If they could not see each other in the mist, Bjólf knew they were safe.
As the ship pulled past the dwindling promontory of land separating the two rivers, the current caught the ship and turned its bows away from the mouth of the north river. Looking upstream, struggling to see past the mast and stowed yard and sail, Bjólf could see nothing in the grey gloom. He breathed a sigh of relief. But as Gunnar pulled against the steer-board, straightening the line of the ship, he heard a faint cry in the distance, and - as if from nowhere - the gaunt shadow of Grimmsson's ship hove into view. Up by the stark dragon's head, holding aloft a burning torch, the unmistakeable figure of Grimmsson himself. Before him, just visible on the front edge of the prow, thick iron spikes projected forward like great thorns, a gesture of contempt - and a hint of what was to come - for any vessel that got in their way. Another of Grimmsson's affectations. Another reason to detest the man. Yet Bjólf could not deny the tenacity of his crew. How they had made up the distance so fast, he could not imagine. But there was no time to think about it.
"Row! Everything you've got!" he roared. Similar cries went up from Grimmsson's ship. It would be a race all the way to the estuary and the open sea.
A pair of arrows, their tips aflame and sticky with pitch, flew towards them, falling short and hissing in the water near the rudder. "They mean to make a fire-ship of us." bellowed Gunnar. "We need to stay out of range!"
"I'm not ready for a funeral just yet," roared Bjólf, and leapt down from his position on the prow. He raced the length of the vessel, eyes wide, willing on the straining muscles of his crew as he passed. "Come on!" he cried. "Leave the bastards standing!"
Úlf had abandoned his song and was now shouting the strokes, pushing them faster, faster.
Bjólf stood by Gunnar, looking back from the stern at their dogged pursuers with a deep frown, the defiance from seconds before now turned to consternation. "How did they do that? Fully-laden, with a poor start and a crew that ran over twice the distance, and still they're right on our tail."
"They must really hate us!" cried Gunnar, leaning hard into the rudder.
Bjólf turned an eye to the bronze weather vane on top of the mast. He knew they could easily outrun Grimmsson's ship under sail. But, in such weather, a decent wind was a remote hope. Up above, the bronze vane swung loose, the black ribbons tied to its edge flapping limply.
With thirty-two oars and now only thirty-eight men - including himself - there was no chance of respite for any but a handful of his crew. Each man could normally manage around a thousand strokes before needing rest, but at this pace, their backs would start to break at six hundred. He only hoped it was enough.
As they pulled away from the mouth of the estuary the fog thinned, the jagged coastline curving away into the murk on either side of them. "This is where it begins," said Bjólf, and turned towards the bow again.
"Which way?" called Gunnar.
Bjólf pointed straight ahead. "The open sea." He swung past the mast and headed back to his position at the prow.
Gunnar stared after him in alarm. Ahead, the flat, leaden grey swell of the ocean heaved beneath a shroud of luminous mist.
"In this? It's madness!"
"Let's hope they feel the same," called Bjólf, and gave a disconcertingly wild laugh. Somehow he seemed to thrive in such moments of desperate adversity.
As they left the protection of the estuary, the ship began to rise and fall on the swell, every timber protesting at the conflicting pressures of oar and ocean, salt spray stinging hands and faces. At the crest of the first steep wave, several of the men in the bows failed to connect their oars with the water and missed a stroke, falling into the men behind them. Hastily they regained their positions, slotting back into the rhythm. Bjólf could not hope for a better crew. But it unsettled him to be heading out from shore into such deep, rolling seas - he'd seen a longship break its back on the swell once, out on the merciless waters of the North Sea. Light and flexible as they were - shallow of draught and slim of build - longships were not at their best in the open ocean. He knew that Grimmsson, with his larger ship and heavier cargo, was at far greater risk. Yet Grimmsson also had more fresh men to relieve his rowers. It would be a battle of wills now. A game of bluff. Bjólf had only one chance, but it meant gambling everything they had.
As the ship rode up the swell, Bjólf looked down onto the pursuing vessel as if from the side of a great valley. They were riding the seas more heavily than Bjólf and his crew, it seemed. The distance between them was growing. The hull of the ship creaked and gave an agonised groan as it tipped again over the peak of the swell, making Grimmsson's ship disappear completely before rising once more above them. The spray cascaded over the bows; Thorvald bailed ceaselessly, the seawater slopping past his feet, keeping time with the rowers - and, amazingly, given the circumstances, humming Úlf's tune to himself. Bjólf felt the timbers shift and twist against each other once again and gritted his teeth. He knew this ship better than any man alive - it was the vessel left to him at the age of only twenty, given to his uncle Olaf years before in recognition of his services to Haakon the Good of Norway. Bjólf never knew the full story, nor the nature of the services (it was the one thing of which Olaf never spoke); all that was certain was that they had earned Olaf the undying hatred of no less than Eirik Bloodaxe, doomed king of Jorvik.
This, then, was one of the great old ships - but for the mast, and a few repaired strakes on the starboard bow, built entirely of oak, and shapely as a swan. She had journeyed to the kingdom of the Rus in the east, and south as far as the Arab lands. She had sailed into Constantinople, and made landfall in Ireland, Normandy, England, the Orkneys and the kingdom of the Franks. She had proved her worth in battle against men, wind and sea, and been Bjólf's true home for the past ten winters. But even he could not be certain of her limits. He would only know them when she finally tore herself apart. Gazing up pleadingly at the dragon's head, he slapped the thick timber of the prow. "Keep it together, old girl. Just a little longer..."
His crew were close to the limit of their endurance now - arms and backs straining, veins and muscles standing out like whipcords, teeth clenched, breaths coming hard and fast. Most had not had time to remove their armour before the chase. Sweat poured off their brows. But, by some miracle - a miracle of muscle and grim determination - they were continuing to pull ahead.
"We have them!" hollered Bjólf. "A few more strokes, and they're dead in the water." The words seemed to drive his men to even greater exertion, a last burst of defiance. Yet, no sooner had he uttered them than one of the men - fourth rower from the port bow - collapsed.
Kjötvi.
As he fell forward, limp and strangely pale, he hit the man in front, knocking him off his stroke. His own oar flailed uselessly, clashing with the two behind. Other oars down the line clashed and faltered as the rhythm broke on the port side. The ship heaved and rocked alarmingly as the uneven pressure of the oars began to turn her. Gunnar fought with the tiller. If they hit the swell at a bad angle, they were in trouble.
Bjólf leapt forward and, as Magnus hauled Kjötvi clear, took control of the oar. Around his feet, the deck was dark and sticky, the froth from the sea spray stained red. Kjötvi's blood. "Pull!" he cried, as the men fought to re-establish the rhythm. "Pull!"
The ship straightened. Bjólf heaved on the oar until he felt it would crack, driving his men on, spurring them to one last effort. After what seemed a lifetime, the waters broadened and smoothed, and Grimmsson's ship gradually receded into the fog, until, finally, only the distant glimmer of the torch remained as evidence of its existence.
"Rest!" called Bjólf. The men collapsed over their oars, gulping at the air. A few whooped and cheered in triumph. Bjólf hushed them. Moving astern, he squinted at the faint orange glow in the fog. Bjólf spoke to his expectant crew in hushed tones. "Keep it quiet. And nothing over the side - you can bet Týr's right hand they'll be on the lookout for that. If you have to piss, you piss in a pot." There were nods all round. Some were only now able to throw off their armour, groaning at the pain in their exhausted limbs. He broke into a smile, allowing himself to feel a glow of satisfaction for these men who placed such trust in him. "Good job."
With that, he kicked open a long, rather battered sea chest, flipped his own mail shirt over his aching shoulders and bundled it inside. Pulling out a thick blue cape, he fastened it around him with a bronze brooch, and, slamming the chest shut, gazed at the lid for a moment, lost in thought. In the surface of the wood - once the colour of a fresh horse chestnut, now bleached by sun and scoured by salt - were delicate carvings of the hero Sigurd slaying the dragon Fafnir. They were in the old style. The chest had once belonged to his uncle, and - despite his father's efforts to keep his eldest son focused on the farm, and the wayward brother at a safe distance - had always inspired him as a child, whenever his uncle came visiting from his voyages. Bjólf had imagined himself as the dragonslayer, travelling the world and doing great deeds; a proud and noble warrior. While the reality of adult life had proved a little more complicated, there were fleeting moments when that childhood dream seemed once again to flicker into life. Despite the terrible misfortunes of the day, this was one of them.
"Is there a plan?" said Gunnar, breaking the spell.
"We gather our strength. Then we row with a half-crew, taking shifts of five hundred strokes, until we lose that..." He pointed toward the stern, where the flame of Grimmsson's ship was still dimly visible.
"And then?"
Bjólf surveyed the blank, still greyness that surrounded them on every side. "One thing at a time."
CHAPTER SEVEN
KJÖTVI THE LUCKY
Kjötvi lay on the raised deck at the prow, deathly pale, his lips tinged with blue, but for the flickering in his eyelids, the very image of a corpse.
"Will he live? asked Bjólf.
"He's lost a lot of blood," said Magnus. "His skin is clammy." That was a bad sign. Magnus had propped Kjötvi's legs up on a chest to slow the flow of blood and, using a small collection of delicate iron tools spread out on their leather wrapping, was now engaged in cutting open the ragged, blood-soaked material to reveal the wound on the lower part of Kjötvi's left leg. As he carefully snipped and peeled away the wet, sticky fabric, a flap of flesh fell open, spilling thick gobbets of half-clotted blood on the deck. It looked for all the world as if someone had tried to carve a neat slice from Kjötvi's calf, mistaking it for a roasting joint. "A blade caught him from above," said Magnus, indicating the line of entry with the flat of his hand. "Very sharp. Very deep. But the battle-fire was in him. Probably didn't even feel it."
"In the woods...." said Gunnar, nodding. "A throwing axe flew past my ear and bounced off his leg. I helped him up."
Magnus examined the angle. "Stopped against the bone. He's fortunate to have kept his foot."
"Kjötvi the Lucky," muttered Gunnar. He did not appear so lucky just now, lying there, half dead. But then, mused Gunnar, half dead was better than all dead.
With delicate movements, compensating for the slow rise and fall of the ship, Magnus peered into the depths of the wound, tentatively opening up the sliced muscle tissue. He squinted hard with his one good eye, a pair of iron tweezers between his steady fingers. "There's something I need to..." Before he could finish his sentence, blood suddenly began to flow again, dripping through the fingers of Magnus's supporting hand. "Ach! We could do with more light here."
"We could risk it, for Kjötvi's sake," said Bjólf.
"Wait..." said Magnus. He knew time was not on their side. Holding his breath, he reached deep into the wound with the tweezers, then emerged with a short, yellow-white sliver of bone between its tiny jaws. "That's where the axe stopped," he said, exhaling heavily. "At least that won't stay rattling around inside him." Without further delay, he pressed the sticky halves of the wound together and, gesturing for Gunnar to place pressure upon it, began to bind up the leg with strips of linen.
Gunnar looked thoughtful. "That could have been my head."
"His bad luck was your good luck," said Bjólf.
Magnus sighed. "Were we ashore, I'd seek herbs to aid the healing. As it is... It's in God's hands now." He silently blessed his patient, kissed a small wooden cross hanging from a thong of leather around his neck and tucked it back into his brown robe.
Stooping, Gunnar picked up the small shard of bone, chipped off Kjötvi's leg like a piece of whittled wood. Studying it between his great thumb and forefinger, he shuddered inwardly, wiped it clean on his sleeve, then tucked it in the small leather bag hanging from his belt. He looked up to the featureless dark sky and muttered to himself. "Gentle Eir - listen to the pleading of this faithful old fool and care for our battle-weary friend." Drawing his knife, he pricked his thumb and let a drop of blood fall onto the deck.
Bjólf placed a hand on Magnus's shoulder. "Do what you can," he said, straightening up. "And do not trust too much to gods, or miraculous resurrections."
He walked with Gunnar, picking his way past the men, huddled between their sea-chests, wrapped in thick woollen capes and furs. After their momentary victory, the fall of Kjötvi had put them in a melancholy mood. The fog clung to them, making everything damp with beads of moisture. At the small steering deck, Bjólf relieved Finn at aft watch and stared with Gunnar out across the darkening sea. For a long time they stood and watched in silence, the only sounds the lap of the water, the creak of the timbers and the occasional isolated cough from a member of the crew. The swell was longer and more even now, and night was almost upon them. Of Grimmsson there was no sign. Not even a glimmer in the failing light.
"Must've given up," muttered Gunnar.
"Can you blame them?" said Bjólf, blowing through his hands, his breaths turning to fog. "They'll be feasting on roasted pork and lamb tonight. On dry land. And where are we?"
"Hey, we're alive, aren't we?"
"No, really..." said Bjólf squinting at the featureless gloom surrounding them. "Where are we?"
"No sun. No stars. No moon." Gunnar sniffed the cold air, then licked his finger and held it aloft. "No wind... No land in sight. Not even a horizon. No creatures in the sea, nor birds in the air." He shrugged. "It's anybody's guess."
"And what would your guess be?"
"My guess would be no better than yours," he said, then, after a moment's hesitation, added: "But Kjötvi would know."
Kjötvi the Lucky was kentmand - one who had a deep knowledge of the seas. He was also the unluckiest person Bjólf had ever met; one of those for whom fate seemed to deliver ten times the misfortune of ordinary men. It had become a standing joke among the crew. In the past, some had expressed reservations about even having him on board. In the course of their current voyage, he had lost his father's helmet in a well, his mail coat overboard, his sword and half his ear. But the one thing Kjötvi had never lost was himself. He knew the currents of the air and the water - and perhaps others yet more subtle - better than any man. 'Wayfinder,' they called him, and it was this uncanny ability that persuaded even the most superstitious of the men to accept him. If Kjötvi could not find a way, they would say, there was not a way to be found. Others said the gods had played a cruel trick, granting him exceptional powers of foresight and sensitivity to the ebb and flow of the world, but taking half of his luck in payment.
"Kjötvi..." said Bjólf with a sigh. And then there was Hallgeir and Steinarr. "This has not been a good day." He dug absent-mindedly at a large splinter in his left palm - where and when he'd got that, he had no memory - then, with a deep sigh, pulled his cloak tighter and stared out again into the not
hingness that surrounded them.
"You know what's hardest to take?" he said dejectedly. "Grimmson's men didn't even bother to put their armour on. Do they really have such a poor opinion of us?"
"I think it's more a measure of their blind hatred."
Bjólf looked sideways at him.
Gunnar shrugged. "Basically, you pissed them off so much, they didn't even stop to think."
"Well, that makes me feel better."
"If you were so worried about feelings, you probably shouldn't have taken their plunder right from under their noses that time at Roskilde."
Bjólf couldn't resist a smile at the thought of it. Now that was a good day.
"I don't like to run, Gunnar," he said. "What is it the Hávamál says? 'The fool believes he'll live forever by running from battle - but old age gives no peace, even though spears might spare him."
"No one likes to run at the time. You'll be glad of it tomorrow." Bjólf looked unconvinced. "And anyway, you did for... what? Two of them?"
"Three."
Gunnar looked at him thoughtfully. "The thing is, I know you're not really angry because you ran. You're angry because you hesitated. But that proves it, you see?"
"Proves what?"
"You didn't run to save yourself. You ran to save your crew. Left to your own devices, I have no doubt you'd be lying hacked to bits back there, your blood feeding their crops - most likely having taken Grimmsson and several others with you."
"That hesitation cost two lives."
"Steinarr most likely lost his shoe. Hallgeir let himself get fat. Their time was up. And they died fighting."
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